


Mission n° 1458 Epic failure, or How to ruin an op: the Clint Barton fiasco

by magenta_llama, Red_is_not_my_colour



Series: For your eyes only [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint should see a therapist, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Humor, Jealous Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mentioning of clinical anxiety, Mentioning of creepy following a child, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Some call it stalking I say walking just extremely close behind, Swearing, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, mother hen Coulson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23496310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magenta_llama/pseuds/magenta_llama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_is_not_my_colour/pseuds/Red_is_not_my_colour
Summary: The asset shifted a little to the right to get an optimal line of sight, keeping all of his concentration built over the years of sniper’s training on his mission (definitely not on the man’s six-pack where clever fingers were spreading soap).The soldier shifted his right foot just half an inch to improve his angle of observation and… only met thin air. The next thing he registered was the mortifying sensation of falling.“Not again,” the odd thought flashed through his mind before he crashed into the dumpster.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Phil Coulson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: For your eyes only [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690585
Comments: 22
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The two best Russian spies are accidentally forced to collaborate on what was supposed to be a milk-run intel collecting mission. It doesn’t turn out as planned…  
> The fic is set in pre-Iron Man 1 period, however, it’s a combination of mcu and comic-books canons 
> 
> *Rabbit: technical term to designate someone that a spy follows to gather information
> 
> The fic was inspired by this post: https://keepcalmandcarrieunderwood.tumblr.com/post/190951563504/the-spy-chasing-me-does-a-stakeout-at-my-house and this tag "#natasha and bucky trying to watch clint" on tumblr

“ _Idiot_ ,” Natasha thought, watching her target rush towards the sink, knocking down a stool on his way. The guy had just spilt half a kettle of boiling water on himself in an attempt to make some instant coffee. 

In a way, it had been fun to watch him live his disastrous little life. She could think of worse distractions from the pompous Stark persona she had to tolerate in terms of her main mission in the States. The spy was almost sorry this little assignment, along with her target’s life, was about to end. The guy’s hobby seemed to be pissing off the Russian mafia in the neighbourhood on a regular basis. This time, he just happened to have stepped on the toes of a wrong guy. A big dealer wannabe baby unable to take care of himself, whining to his uncle in the Red Room at the drop of a hat. Useless trash.

The target didn’t even appear to be such a challenge to take out. Give the guy a day and he’ll take care of it himself by falling out of the window because he’d confused it with the bathroom door. 

But well... A mission was a mission. Soundlessly, Natasha shot her grappling hook out. A second, and she was sliding down the wall of the opposite building. The idiot had left his bedroom window open. Hadn’t aired his flat for a week and forgot to close it once he finally did it. 

A few seconds, and the spy stepped into the dim room. The timing was perfect: the dark-haired girl, who seemed to be the only friend the guy had, had taken the dog for a walk - she saw them headed towards the park seventeen minutes ago. Which meant they were not coming back for at least an hour. 

She was going to make it quick and natural - take the target by surprise, minimum damage (although with the number of various types of injuries the guy was sporting on a regular basis, Natasha doubted that anyone would really pay attention to a few extra bruises), drag him into the bathroom, crack his skull against the tile, make it look as if he’d slipped on the soap bar he’d dropped on the floor two days ago and still didn’t seem to care to pick up. Leave the mark, collect the bugging, clear out, have her hair styled for the dinner with Stark Industries partners later that evening. 

Natasha moved across the room, her steps stealthy on the floor. She put her fingers on the doorknob and listened carefully to the rustling in the main room, waiting for the footsteps to reach the position she needed. Almost there… Her muscles flexed, ready to push-

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Natasha stilled. It couldn’t be the girl. And she didn’t hear them call the pizza delivery. A neighbour? 

She listened as the footsteps changed direction, a thump and a loud screak followed by a quiet curse - the guy had probably tripped over another stool on his way. What a duffer. The door lock clicked. 

“Agent Barton.”

_Agent_ Barton?

“Sir?”

“Didn’t you get my message?” 

“What message?”

“And the twelve missed calls?”

“...”

“... I see. You have a mission briefing that starts… thirty-five minutes ago.”

“Oh, sh-” More rustling, then loud footsteps in the direction of the bedroom. “Give me a minute, I- Dammit!” Another loud screak and the sound of glass breaking. This time, probably the coffee table. 

Natasha hurried towards the window. 

_Mission briefing?_ This needed to reach her authorities first.

***

Clint lumbered into the dark apartment, his legs hardly moving. His muscles ached. He was _exhausted._ He had been bitten by some kind of a jungle insect _four_ times and the bites were itching. On top of that, as he found out right before passing out, the pests were _venomous_ , and it was a miracle he’d even gotten to the medics on time. 

“Lucky?” he called, surprised that the dog hadn’t greeted him with the usual jumping onto his chest the moment he opened the door. Oh, right. Clint had left Kate a note with a plea to babysit him before Coulson dragged him out of his house three days ago. 

Clint tossed his jacket aside, not bothering with the hanger, and stumbled towards the couch. He didn’t have it in him to walk the extra distance to the bedroom. The archer put his bow and quiver carefully on the floor where he could still easily snatch at them if needed and finally took the hearing aids off, rubbing at his skin. His ears were sore after wearing the aids for seventy-two hours without breaks, he had a really bad headache and he was still nauseous and dizzy after almost dying of venom a few hours before. 

He plopped down on the sofa, finally closing his eyes. Ahh- Much better. Finally, some sleep.

***

It didn’t feel like more than forty minutes had passed before Clint sat up abruptly, his bow immediately in his arms. A few exhales, ready for attack. Nothing happened. He reached out for the coffee table, his fingers fiddling for the hearing aids. 

Something felt off. Had been for a while, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. Clint walked to the window, the half-drawn bow still in his hands. Clear. He checked the bedroom and the bathroom, then walked carefully towards the door and out into the hallway. He ended up checking each level of the building and startling Mrs Davis from the fourth floor. But still, nothing. Just the usual trepidation, amplified after the mission. He should probably see a specialist about that. He wasn’t going to. Not now. There were things Clint was not ready to acknowledge to himself, much less say them aloud to someone else. But hey, it wasn’t that bad, right? Right.

He returned to his flat, locking the door and checking the rooms once again. Finally, he took a deep breath. His stomach gurgled. Food. He needed food. 

Clint stumbled towards the fridge, opening the door only to discover that it was empty. Of course. Only a few sauce bottles and a milk carton.

He reached out for the milk, making a few big gulps before realizing it was expired and hurrying towards the sink to spit it out. 

Okay. He needed to get some food. He squared his shoulders and braced himself. He could do this. Anyway, he was too jumpy to sleep now. Aw shucks, maybe he should have drunk less coffee before. Even if he would not have been able to sleep - post-mission paranoia, this old friend! - his stomach would at least be calmer and less in knots. 

With a dramatic sigh, Clint went to his bedroom and picked up an old tee that was almost clean and not too wrinkled before lacing his shoes and pocketing his keys. He did _not_ want to be stuck outside today. Not _again_. He even grabbed a cloth bag for the groceries! Hurray! He was maybe not a lost cause.

...okay, maybe he was. Just as he stepped out of the building, he realized that he had forgotten his jacket. Bah, it was not that cold, he would survive.

He walked absentmindedly down the street and joined the overcrowded avenue before being violently reminded of the real world. People. Everywhere. Hnnng. Well, it was rush hour after all, everybody was done with their day and on their way to do whatever the hell they wanted. He shouldn’t hate them for that. Not at all. Hell, he was tired. 

As Clint got onto the first bus he could catch - there was no way he would even think of walking when he felt so sore, thank you - the archer spotted a lonely little girl wearing a “Dog Cops” t-shirt with an assorted backpack. She was standing quietly next to the door squashed between a dude in a suit and a middle-aged woman who was yelling into her phone about how all men were assholes. Ugh. Clint briefly wondered what happened to her. Poor lady. He tried to avoid eavesdropping and focused on the girl who was moving her head repeatedly, maybe following the music she was listening through her glittery pink headphones. She was about ten and had pigtails. There was something about her that reminded him of Kate. Something about the way she was smiling into the void maybe…

But... something was off. What was she doing alone in the city? It was dangerous! What if some creep followed her, she could- Clint’s eyes darted over the crowd to make sure that no one had ill intentions about her. Hmmm… He glanced at the girl again, making his mind up. _He_ ’ll be the creep. He’ll follow her around and see to it that she gets home unharmed _._ She will be safe. It’s for a good cause. 

He tailed her discreetly for her whole ride – he was SHIELD’s best agent, he could track a ten-year-old girl, thank you very much - and only stopped when she entered a building twenty minutes later. What kind of an irresponsible parent would let their elementary-schooler just walk around on their own like this? At this hour and in this district? He got beaten up just there last week! And he was a _trained_ _agent_! 

Trying to avoid thinking about his own parental issues that he would never address anymore if he was given the choice, Clint realized that he was in the opposite direction from where he’d originally planned to go. Crap. Where was the closest grocery store now? On his way following the girl, he had forgotten how hungry he was, but now his stomach was protesting with a renovelled vigour. 

He turned around and went back to the bus stop. Now, he had a plan and he was going to follow it. He was going to his usual store and find something more or less healthy to eat. He was a functional adult, able to take a bus and find something to cook. He could do it. He was determined to not be distracted again and nothing would divert his course. Not even the damn laces of his right boot which refused to stay laced, goddamnit! 

The bus was even more stuffed than the first time and Clint did an impressive job of keeping himself from not kicking one or three guys who pushed him during the trip. People. His cloth bag got trapped behind him as he was squashed against the door. As Clint was trying to pull it free, he got pushed again. With a crack, the bag got half torn. Crap. 

It got even worse when he arrived at the store. People were pushing around and rushing to get pastas and pickles before the others- Why? There were enough of those! He never got it. No one would die of hunger here- Someone accidentally bumped into a shelf and dropped a few bottles with a crash. The cash registers were beeping and beeping and _beeping_. A kid was throwing a tantrum because his parents refused to buy the toy he wanted. Each and every noise got transmitted into his hearing aids at the same sound level, making it all mix into a flat blur and it was just- overwhelming. Nauseous. Two women nearby started an argument about a brand of laundry and that’s it, it was too much. He could not focus on anything anymore. Air. He needed to get the fuck out into the air. Out of the shop. Now.

He just picked the first can in front of him and rushed towards the cash registers, stumbling on his way. _Damn laces_. He paid for the food trying to be as nice as possible to the poor exhausted cashier who looked like he needed as much sleep as Clint. He did it! Finally. He could go. Relieved, he stepped back and headed to the exit. He made it to the escalators when he noticed that the cursed right boot’s laces were untied again. He bowed down to fix them - and lost ground, tripping on his own feet. He tried to restore his balance, but it didn’t work. He fell like an idiot in the middle of the crowd entering the store. Crap. 

What was wrong with his life?! He just wanted to go home. Could he please just go home?

Clint slowly got to his feet and moved towards the exit He was so tired. Exhausted. Did a word stronger than exhausted exist? Because he felt it right now. Anyway, he had some food and would soon be back on his couch. Maybe he could even try to make it to his bed. As he arrived at the bus stop, he glanced down at the can he’d bought, hoping it was something edible. It was tomato paste. Ow shucks. 

Crap, and it was Tuesday. His pizza place was closed. Clint felt like he was about to cry. 

So… back to the store. He thought briefly about turning his hearing aids off to be less overwhelmed by the surrounding crowd and the indistinctive noise it was making, but his crippling anxiety would not allow it. It was one thing to be too tired to even walk properly, it was another to deprive himself of his senses because he was too useless to endure the unending whistling his aids produced when his surroundings were too noisy. He was a grown-up agent; he could do it.

For the third time that night, Clint turned around and went back to the store. But he only made a few steps up the street when, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a new pet shop with adorable puppies in the window. Oh my, and there was a sign on the door inviting people to pet them to keep them company. Well, maybe he could find some treat for Lucky? He was such a good boy, he deserved a new toy!

As soon as Clint passed the door, he was welcomed by overjoyed barking coming from the cage that contained the three puppies. They were so cute! For four full seconds - the time it took the cashier to welcome him - he fought the overwhelming urge to run to them and cuddle them all. Finally, after using hand sanitizer and getting a nod from the cashier, he ran to the puppies and did just that. 

What a bunch of good boys. Ah, no, the cashier told him that the one with the longest ears at his right was a girl. He apologized for misgendering her by climbing in the cage to cuddle her better, while her brothers jumped on his lap. The cashier was nice too. He was an art student working here to pay for his studies and was very easy-going. They chatted for a while, cooing at anything the puppies - three pure race Rottweiler who were four months old - did until they all fell asleep on Clint’s lap. Wow, he was the happiest man on Earth right now. 

“Man, I’m sorry, I would love you to stay more, but I really have to close and go home now. It’s 9.30…” the cashier mumbled after what seemed like 3 minutes. “Maybe you can come back another day?” Mike - that was his name - looked almost hopeful. He was such a nice guy, caring for adorable pets and ready to share his passion with every trash dude crossing his door.

Clint hastily apologized for staying that long and bought some treats for Lucky, as well as a fake purple plastic bone which squeaked when it was chewed on. Lucky would love it!

Once again, he was on the streets on his way to the store, this time for sure. He was. Going. To get. To that store. To get. His soup can.

After having cuddled and petted puppies for hours, he felt ready to face the crowd at the store. He was ready to face anything. He headed to the shop, full of determination. He was feeling much better, and there were way fewer people on the street now. And there it was, the store. Clint did it. He was so proud of himself. He strode to the automatic doors, happy to see that there was no more crowd inside. In fact, he could see no people at all. He took an abrupt halt when the doors didn’t open. Then, took a few steps back and tried to walk in again. No response. Was it… Clint pulled out his phone from the pocket and checked the time. Ow, shucks! It was closed. 

His exhaustion came back that instant. He stood there for a few minutes, staring inside through the glass windows. Suddenly, he was freezing.

The hell with it. He turned back home, damn tomato paste in his hand, stopping by a 24/7 street food stall to buy a tasteless burger. No healthy food for him tonight. Well, healthy-ish at least. Healthier than usual anyway. Coulson will be disappointed.

***

“Ms Rushman?” 

Natasha looked up, putting on a soft smile. “Yes, Mr Stark?”

“Everything okay? You look distracted.”

“Yes, I-” 

Actually, she could use the opportunity to check on the rabbit before he disappeared again. It’d been seventy-two hours since he left with the agent, and the bugging had just indicated movement in the apartment. If she was lucky, his friend might be there as well. And if he talked to her about whatever organization he worked for… 

“Just… Troubles at home,” Natasha dropped her eyes, her fingers tapping at her wine glass. “Sorry.”

She felt Stark’s eyes study her for a moment. 

“You know what? I was leaving anyway,” he gave a sign to the bartender. “The most boring party in my life. I even tried pole dancing myself, but Ms Potts _glared_ at me.”

“You… have a pole here, Mr Stark?” She looked up, her eyebrows raised in a carefully built amused expression. 

Stark grinned, taking the whiskey glass from the bartender. “Oh, please, I have _fifteen_ poles here- I’ll take the bottle, too. Need a ride?”

She shook her head, her lips curved in a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“Well, then… See you later, Ms Rushman,” the man turned on his heels, waving the bottle in the air. “Call me if Pepper allows pole dancing after all.”

Perfect. Time to check on her rabbit. 

***

The night was going to be long. When she got to her stakeout, the rabbit had already been asleep on the sofa in his main room. With this guy, you never knew what to expect. He could go two days with no sleep at all, then trip out for seventeen hours. He could have a four-hour nap in the afternoon and roam somewhere for two days and then come back and take an actual beauty sleep. 

At least now she knew what he had been doing. That explained the injuries, too. Well, some of them. How could she have not found out earlier? She’d underestimated this guy. Grossly. The Red Room’s best spy. The shame of it… 

Natasha’s thoughts were interrupted when the rabbit jumped on the sofa, reaching out for his bow. Nightmare again? The guy seemed to have those on quite a regular basis. Now he was going to fetch some water and get back to- Oh. No, he was walking towards…Natasha hurried to duck, covering behind the parapet. 

She crawled along the roof, changing her position to hide behind a tall block. She waited a few seconds, then carefully used her mirror to peep out. The rabbit was gone. Natasha felt her heartbeat quicken. The guy suddenly presented some kind of a… challenge? At least, some fresh air. She hadn’t had any action for weeks now. 

She returned to her position right in time to spot the rabbit leave the flat. She watched him get to the door, his usual clumsiness surprisingly gone. There definitely was more to this guy than it had seemed. And he had her full attention now.

***

She hastened to come down to the ground, taking the position on the opposite side of the road. The rabbit was about to leave the building in a few- There he was. Natasha watched him walk down the street, waiting for him to reach the necessary distance before following. 

The man went through the blocks and out into the main road. Carefully, she trailed him trying to predict the direction he was about to take. It looked like… Seriously? He was going… Yes. He was going to take the bus. Natasha gave out a shuddered breath, clenching her jaw, and quickened her pace.

The bus arrived right as she reached the stop. Natasha squeezed through the door next to the rabbit’s. Eight stations. She had to tolerate eight stations squashed between the people, trying to maintain her balance and keeping the rabbit in sight. Where the hell was he heading? 

Finally, they seemed to have arrived at the stop he needed. The guy’s pace seemed… different this time. Visibly slower and much… steadier than after he left his house. He seemed very relaxed and casual, but the trained eye noticed how careful he now was. Interesting. It was as if he was… Following someone. 

Right in front of them, about twice the distance she kept from the guy, there was a child. The pattern was too distinctive to be anything else. He was following the girl. What the…

Natasha tensed, clenching her fists and ready to jump into action. The guy didn’t look like a creep. But well, he hadn’t looked like an intelligence agent to her just a week ago. Was the girl an agent? Natasha started her spy career at an even earlier age. 

She quickened her pace. The moment he takes a wrong step - the moment she takes him down. The girl won’t even notice anything happen behind her back.

They went into a dark alley but the guy didn’t seem to make any attempts on closing the distance. It was as if he was just… observing? What was he even doing? 

She watched the girl enter the building and took cover just in time before the guy stopped and turned around. Was he just… walking the girl home? Completely lost, she watched as he went down to the main street again.

Natasha hurried after him. The man walked a few meters up the street and then took an abrupt stop again. Cold down her spine, Natasha watched him turn right towards her. She was caught off-guard. Had he known she was following him all along? This was going bad.

But… He didn’t really seem to notice her? Natasha strained, fingers at the knife in her pocket as she kept on walking. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he came alongside her and- just walked by. 

...what the actual fuck was wrong with this guy?

***

So, that was what this disaster’s grocery shopping looked like. What exactly was he planning to do with a tomato paste can? 

Natasha took a sip from her coffee cup as she watched him approach the escalators. She got up, tipping the barista, and left the coffee shop. With the crowd like this, it would be easy to lose him if she didn’t follow close enough. 

The rabbit made it to the escalators. And the next second- he disappeared. What the... Natasha glanced over the heads, but she couldn’t spot him. It wasn’t exactly easy to lose the guy of his height. But there were too many people now… She hurried to the escalators, her eyes searching through the crowd downstairs. There! 

Natasha went down, making her way through the crowd and hurrying outside. There he was. The tall blond guy, heading towards the… oh no. Wrong guy. Damn it! 

Natasha took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She was beginning to regret she hadn’t just followed the initial mission directive and killed the guy in the first place. Thankfully, she had slipped a tracker into his pocket on that second bus trip.

She pulled her tracker device out. To a passer-by, the machine looked like an ordinary cell phone, perfect to use in the middle of the street and drive zero attention. 

She glanced at the screen and… that was odd. It looked like the rabbit was still… standing by the escalators? Natasha frowned, staring at the screen for a few seconds before turning to the store again. Was he meeting with someone there?. 

She hurried inside, looking up. No sign of the guy. 

Natasha took the escalator up and checked her device again. Still online. The rabbit should be there, right at the spot where she was standing. She looked around again. Nothing. 

And then, something cracked under her heel. She took a step back and looked down. The crashed tracker was right there on the floor next to her foot. 

***

The rabbit was home two and a half hours after she’d lost him. From her stakeout, Natasha watched him enter his flat. She had no idea where he had been and what he had been doing. She had failed. She had wasted her evening. She had lost a tracker. Had the rabbit gotten rid of it? Or had this hazard to his own life just lost it somehow? 

The guy wondered about his apartment, looking for something. Then dug between the couch pillows and pulled his phone out. Fingers fidgeting with her knife, Natasha watched him write a text, pull his t-shirt off, enter the bathroom and slip on the soap bar, crashing onto the floor.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Lying in the grass, the asset aimed at his target and shot the poisoned dart through the open window, right on the mole the man had on the neck. His victim collapsed onto his desk in less than one second. The asset swiftly stood up and slung his darts rifle across his shoulders before heading toward the manor where his mission resided.

He marched to the main entrance, stopped 18 seconds 45.56 feet before the door to avoid the rotating security cameras, walked 15.3 feet to the left to stay invisible to the guards patrolling in the garden and waited there 3.6 minutes for them to leave. Once he could not hear their steps nor their chatter anymore -meaning that they were more than 200.12 feet away- the soldier stealthily reached the front door and opened it soundlessly.

He did not need to worry about the security cameras in the house - he had already hacked the whole server treating the tapes and replaced them. The asset quickly crossed the first floor and climbed up the stairs – stepping over the two that creaked - counted four doors at his right and stepped into the office where his target’s corpse was already cooling down. 

With practised ease, the soldier retrieved his flechette -that did not leave any trace behind, as the small needle was planted on the dark beauty spot that hid the entrance wound - and closed the window he'd shot the dart through. Making sure that he stayed out of the field of view, he fetched the vial of poison from his right pocket and poured it in the whiskey tumbler that the target had been drinking before he took him out. 

In the same move, he leaned up the desk and retrieved the letter securely hidden in the inner pocket of his tac suit’s jacket before placing the note - the asset wrote it himself in mimicking the dead man’s handwriting- in front of his victim. It talked about the war, about Iraq, about civilians killed and guilt that was not bearable anymore. It looked convincing.

The soldier made sure that the office key was in the man’s vest pocket and looked around to make sure one last time that there was no sign of his passage – the handler told him that the target was the FBI’s second in command and warned him that a thorough investigation would be conducted no matter what- before leaving the room and closing the door with a double of the key.

He took the same path as previously and quitted the house without leaving a trace of his presence.

********************************************  


The asset was still reporting the exact course of his mission to the handler when the phone rang, interrupting him and startling the two guards that were watching his slightest movements, ready to take him out at the first provocation. The officer let the room to converse more privately with his interlocutor – who spoke Russian, but with a Bulgarian accent- leaving them in the naked bureau they used for the rendez-vous. 

The two men’s respiration rate upped to 30 % quicker than normal as soon as the officer crossed the door. The asset guessed that they were supposed to contain him if he had one of his episodes and attacked the handler, although he had already worked out six ways to eliminate them in less than 9 seconds – 5, if the younger one was even clumsier than the way he handled his gun was any indication.

He fixed his gaze on the wall and stayed perfectly steady, making sure not to give them any reason to think he had any willingness to fracture their skulls. They looked twitchy.

“Soldier!” the handler snapped as he came back 12.21 minutes later. “Change of plan. You have a new mission.”

This was not the usual procedure. The asset had received precise instructions: follow the handler’s commands and come back to the base for maintenance. The orders could not be overridden by any new mission, except if it was at least a B type priority one. He informed the handler of that and did  _ not  _ feel any delight in noticing the guards exchanging a scared glance.

“Boy, you have no idea of what’s coming down on you…” muttered the man with an almost apologetic expression in handing him a memory stick.

********************************************

“Objective of the mission?” the handler asked as soon as the soldier got acquainted with the files.

“Ascertain if the Black Widow committed treason.”

“How?”

“By monitoring her during her mission.”

“Yes, but  _ how _ ?”

“I will pretend to help her in her investigations on a man named Clint Barton and find evidences of her betrayal or loyalty,” recited the soldier without hesitation.

The woman had been recently sent to acquire intelligence on Stark Industries and started collecting rookie mistakes one after the other right after that. The high graded interpreted that as a sign that she was bought by Stark and turned against them, but did not want to take any action without ensuring it.

The Black Widow was a valuable asset. Too valuable to dispose of her thoughtlessly. And too skilled too: according to her file, there was no doubt that any direct attack against her would result in the loss of numerous agents. That was the reason they were sending the Winter Soldier and not an operative whose speciality was infiltration: he would be able to handle her, should the reason occur.

“She is currently positioned in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn,” the asset continued in a blank voice. “And expects me to arrive tomorrow morning at 11.15 at her stakeout.” 

“And what will you do if you find that she’s a rat?”

“Report to the leadership.”

“And then?”

“Dispose of her body”.

********************************************

_ “Another tracker, Romanova?! You’ve lost yet another tracker?! We gave you a simple assignment and you- three trackers in a week! And you still don’t know who Barton works for?” _

  
  


_ Natasha rubbed her temple, phone at her ear. She hated Demidov. With every fiber of her being. But he was right, and she hated that, too. She had lost three goddamn trackers. In a week. _

__

_She found the first one on the floor at the store, after she’d stepped on it, crushing it into pieces with her own boot. She hid another tracker in the pocket of the rabbit’s jacket. Before Natasha’s very eyes, he offered it to a passer-by on the street who “looked cold”, in his opinion. The last one… he simply threw away the scarf she sewed the tracker in, even though he had almost maniacally clung to it for days prior that._ _There was no more doubt. Barton knew he had been followed. He was good. Very good. And he was mocking her._

  
  


_ “Report on SI mission progress,” the voice on the phone interrupted her thoughts.  _

  
  


_ Natasha closed her eyes for a second, drawing a silent breath.  _

  
  


_ “Stark’s security codes aren’t easy to override. If I try-” _

  
  


_ “Do. You have. The data?” _

  
  


_ “No,” the spy replied, clenching her teeth. _

  
  


_ “I can’t believe your incompetence!”  _

  
  


_ Natasha put the phone away from her ear, ignoring Demidov’s tantrum. Her fingers reached out for her knife, fiddling with the blade. _

  
  


_ “Well, send someone better,” she said quietly as soon as the shouting on the other side stopped.  _

  
  


_ There was a moment of silence. Natasha smirked, knowing exactly what Demidov’s face looked like at that moment: red and sweaty and gaping at her reply. _

  
  


_ “... don’t get above yourself, Black Widow. And we are sending you... aid. For your Barton mission.” _

  
  


_ “... what kind of ‘aid’?” _

  
  


And there he was. Natasha had known the exact second he stepped on the roof where her tonight’s stakeout was, his steps inaudible behind her back. The spy turned around, her muscles tense, fingers ready to grab the guns at her thighs. 

  
  


“Winter Soldier,” she greeted quietly.

  
  


The asset didn’t reply. He strolled past her to the surveillance equipment and proceeded to check the calibration. 

  
  


********************************************

  
  
  
  


The asset arrived at his post eleven days ago.

Eleven days of excruciating observations.

At first, the soldier estimated that this mission would be far more easier than expected, judging by how much the Widow was wary of him. She seemed much leerier than the occasional agents he had to back up, who were at least relieved to receive his help - even if they were afraid of him.

But she was not at all comforted by his presence, far from it.

The woman was not strictly speaking scared of him either: her heart did not speed up when he moved and her posture was steady. She was just openly mistrustful.

That was not the behavior of a good and loyal agent, the soldier reckoned. It was suspicious.

He immediately informed his handler of his doubts - as required - and settled to observe the presumed rabbit next to the soon-to-be dead traitor.

Eleven days later, the asset regretted every single one dismissive thought he had ever had toward the incredibly patient and skilled woman.

The rabbit was a master in his field. He allied a flawlessly genuine and clumsy appearance with implacable and deadly competences, as the asset could testify just three hours after his arrival, when his suffering started.

The archer managed to lose them in walking his dog in the midday crowd in the Herbert Von King park. He probably spotted them despite their disguise as soon as they crossed the fences surrounding the entrance. The asset did not know what betrayed them: their camouflage was perfect for a late spring walk in a park and they never got in the rabbit field of view. 

The Widow was wearing a banal flowery dress and her currently dark hair was tied up in a ponytail - she totally blended in the crowd. For his part, the soldier just wore a baseball jacket with jeans and paid extra attention to walk like a civilian and not an operative on a mission, with long and lazy steps. 

The asset had insisted that they go on this unplanned undercover mission in haste and observed Natasha all along. He wanted to check if she was communicating with the rabbit to warn him that he was followed. She did not. The asset was certain of it. He had not let her any aperture to do so. That meant that the archer discovered that he was observed and chose to evaluate them. 

Looking back, it was the only possible explanation why Barton had waited 27 minutes in a queue to “buy a pretzel” at a street vendor, forcing them to stay put on a bench 332 feet away - pretending to be a young couple to stay inconspicuous. The Widow and he even had to do small talk to consolidate their cover, in case Barton had a complice who eavesdropped them.

_ Small talk _ . For _ 27 minutes. _

The man was simply testing their patience and immediately gave aforementioned pretzel to his mutt as soon as he  _ finally _ obtained it. 

Right after that, Barton must have given a signal to his beast, ordering it to make an unforeseen run in the middle of the crowd - how on Earth could a half blind limping dog run so fast? The man followed it immediately and disappeared in the gathering of civilians that came to take their lunch in the sun. 

The soldier and the Widow instantly chased after him, but it was already too late. Barton had purely and simply vanished in the mass of commoners. 

They only found him on their way back to their observation point to give their third feedback of the day to the handler. They were alerted by screams and almost came face to face with the guy as he was singlehandedly fistfighting four men.

Barton brought them to the ground without breaking a sweat in less than 1.2 minutes and left them in the gutter without a second glance, only fussing over his dog and promising him pizza for being “such a good doggo”.

The soldier thought at this point that they had a lead to untangle the truth and discover the archer’s true identity. Yet, when the asset interrogated the men later, they could not provide any useful information. 

They mostly stuttered that the man was “bad for the business, the boss is not happy with him. But I don’t know anything! I  _ swear _ !”, and the Widow and him had to explain to the handlers why they were late for their report  _ and  _ find a way to get rid of the bodies. 

The high-ups were  _ already  _ not pleased. 

After that, it all went even worse.

The asset and the Widow spent eleven days monitoring him as he watched TV, walked his mutt– and fed him with anything but dog food. Was is healthy? How could a dog eat so many hot dogs? – and drank cheap beer.

Eleven endless days.

The man never slept more than a few hours at a time before waking up with a jump - nightmares, obviously. 

The Widow stated that it was usual for him when it occurred for the first time - probably the result of a shady past, more evidences required - and was restless when awake.

When he was not trying to fix a broken piece of furniture in the crappy building he owned or out to wander in unpredictable places in crossing the whole city from east to west without any clear direction, he went to the shooting range located 11 minutes on foot from his building.

He apparently had a deal with the owner and could access the range at _ any bloody time  _ and shoot with any weapon he wanted. Yet, Barton favored his bows.

And the man could shoot.

The asset observed him drawing his bows for hours without any break and reaching the bull’s eye.

Every single time.

Sometimes, a small part in the soldier’s mind was impressed and told him that such an amazing sharpshooter could interest the hierarchy, and that the Red Room could find him a utility.

A few times, an even smaller voice whispered back that  _ he could not allow that _ .

The smaller voice was always followed by a crippling headache that left him nauseous and unsteady, with an odd sensation of missing something.

The asset knew he had already lost too much time for this mission. He had to come back for recalibration soon, or the situation would worsen.

It always worsened.

The lack of sleep and the waiting were getting on the soldier’s nerves. The sooner the missions were complete, the better. At least, the serum his handlers gifted him with allowed him to fulfill his objective despite the tiredness, but that wasn’t the case of his partner. 

The Widow looked like she was was at the end of her rope. She’d already spent more than two weeks on her previous mission and started showing signs of exhaustion. No amount of makeup could hide properly the dark rings around her eyes anymore. 

More worrisome, after five days, the asset noticed that her hands were not as steady as they used to be when she was calibrating the surveillance equipment. She also started to jump at shadows or everyday city noises. 

That was risky: even good agents were susceptible to make mistakes when they were in this state. And mistakes were more often than not deadly. 

The rare hours of rest she could get on the freezing roof when the asset took watch were obviously not enough for the dame, and her wariness toward him did not allow her to sleep properly. Yet, the asset could not decently tell her to find a hotel room to get some real shut-eye as assessing her loyalty was his priority mission. 

She wouldn’t accept it anyway. She didn’t want to miss the moment when Barton would make a mistake and lead them to whoever he worked for. The asset understood that. 

They settled on the roof of a building with a line of sight giving the perfect access to the guy’s living room through the huge window without a curtain.They didn’t encounter any difficulty to access the top - except if you counted the glass debris that someone scattered there to discourage teens to climb on the roof that they had to sweep before taking position - but it was not really professional assassins-proof.

They had established a small camp and stayed there most of the time, monitoring their rabbit together. If the soldier had not been a ruthless killing machine and the Widow a lethal weapon, it could have been considered domestic. 

Tonight though, they were quietly observing the man, wrapped up in blankets they had bought three days ago in a thrift shop. He had to take a few for himself before the Widow accepted one, but she seemed to be less uncomfortable now. 

The rabbit – who was asleep half naked on his couch, clutching a bow as if it were a teddy bear - woke up with a jump at 1am.

He cleaned maniacally his whole flat by 2.34 am – almost finding Hydra’s new microbugs stuck behind the fridge in the process - before making a phone call. His handler, according to Natasha.

The man answered after two rings despite the fact that it was the middle of the night and spent more than 12 minutes explaining to the archer how to cook chicken stripes with chopped zucchinis.

“Is it a code? It seems suspicious,” the asset inquired Natasha when they hanged up. 

“I guess so. But I cannot find a pattern. It has already happened twice before you arrived, and they talked about mundane topics like cooking or shows. Coulson is quite adamant about the fact that Barton should  _ eat healthier _ , but I ignore what it is supposed to mean. I assume it’s a mission order because I doubt this guy ever cooked  _ anything _ . He lives like a raccoon. As much as I know, he survives by eating trash.”

“And who is this Coulson?” the soldier cut, “You mentioned him in your reports.”

“No idea either. No one’s ever heard his name. It must be a fake identity.”

The asset grunted and was distracted from his inner deliberations by Barton’s movement in the kitchen. The man prepared a coffee pot and settled back on his couch, turning on the TV, before drinking directly from the pot.

“What… is he really?” the soldier started.

“Yup. He’s disgusting,” concluded Natasha with a cringe.

**Author's Note:**

> Here are our Tumblr accounts! We are red-is-not-my-colour and magenta-llama-art, feel free to visit and have a chat!


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